Me Trying To Figure Out How Loki Has All These Powers Yet Decides To Stab Thanos

but i let you in. that was the problem. i told you from the start that i chew my own heart, that i don’t trust love, that i can’t watch a trainwreck. that i don’t open up because the inside is too soft and i’m not good at getting the thorns unstuck. you brought my hand to your lips and promised you would be different. i knew better but i still believed it. look at us now. you’re growing out and i’m rotting. look at us now. i can’t stop thinking about you and you’re only thinking about him. look at us and look at where we could have been. but i let you in. i knew better and i let you in.

Every time you think “they could have hurt me worse”, remember that you shouldn’t have been hurt at all. You should have received support and help on everything you struggled with. You should never have faced pain from the hands of your loved ones. You should have been safe and happy and without a care in the world as a child. That’s what you compare your abuse to. 

It honestly hurts so bad.

“sometimes I wonder how it would feel to break down. to grab things and smash them to pieces. to scream and show everything I feel inside on the outside instead. and I wonder if it would help. to let go like that. to say, fuck it, and not give a damn whether you’re locked away in some dingy asylum away from all things sane. when you have felt crazy for so long, you wonder why it should matter to finally stop pretending that you were ever okay that you were ever sane or normal that you were ever anything else at all. let. it. breathe. and let them lock you away. let them blot your name from the history books. to finally not exist… perhaps at last you’d feel something close to freedom.”

— broken thoughts

Then it comes to me: Yes I’ll die, so will everyone, so has everyone. It’s what we have in common. And for a moment, the sorrow ceased, and I saw that it hadn’t been sorrow after all, but loneliness,

Marie Howe, from Magdalene: Poems; “October”

9/10/20

I hope you never reach a point where nothing makes you feel better. Talking about it doesn’t make you feel better, staying silent doesn’t make you feel better. Seeing the ones you love doesn’t make you feel better, isolating yourself doesn’t make you feel better. Eating doesn’t make you feel better, starving yourself to feel a more urgent pain to distract you from the real one doesn’t make you feel better.

I hope you never have to write about it, and find out, that even that, no longer makes you feel the slightest bit better.

It’s my fault, isn’t it?